Our married life after that wasn’t particularly dramatic, but it was peaceful and fulfilling.
“My lord, your meals are far too greasy. You need to eat more vegetables.”
Just looking at the luxurious spread on the table was enough to give me heartburn.
“Hmph. I won’t eat such greens!”
“That won’t do, my lord. Are you trying to make me a widow? If that happens, I’ll be so lonely I won’t be able to go on. Please take care of yourself.”
With hands clasped and teary eyes, I pleaded earnestly. My husband, perhaps feeling guilty, fell into thought.
Though I found his belly charming, his health couldn’t be neglected. It was a wife’s privilege—and responsibility—to guide her husband in such matters.
"Hmm… perhaps I should cut back on greasy foods a bit… You there, bring me a salad," my husband grumbled.
As the servant brought the salad, I confiscated the dressing.
“No need for unnecessary calories and sodium,” I said with a bright smile, watching my husband silently munch on the plain salad like livestock—no, like a disciplined eater. His slightly teary eyes were adorable.
"My lord, did you properly wash behind your ears?"
"Hm? Yes, of course. You insisted, so I made sure to be thorough."
"That's good. After all, the smell of age that lingers around you is quite potent. While futile, at least this will mitigate it somewhat."
If you go around smelling so "pleasant," other women might start flocking to you.
"..."
—pshh!—
"Ah, no, my lord! If you apply cologne, the scents will mix into an unholy stench that could send anyone to an early grave."
"...I'll bathe again," he sighed.
"Yes, that would be best. The shine of oil on your forehead hasn't been addressed either—so dazzling."
"..."
Your very existence dazzles me, my dear husband.
I watched his slumped shoulders as he trudged back to the bath, my gaze soft with affection.
"Oh, you're done with your bath? Ah, my lord, please wait!"
"What now?"
"The pomade scent is far too overpowering. Why do you insist on emitting so many different smells?"
"...But I must style my hair somehow."
"Why not cut it shorter? Your bangs are far too long."
"Well… that’s… difficult."
Ah, I see. If he cuts it short, he won’t be able to hide his balding crown anymore.
"Why must you hide it?! Why feel ashamed?!"
"Uh, I… what?"
"That serene expanse of scorched earth atop your head is a proud symbol of virility! You should flaunt it, not conceal it!"
"Really? Is that how young people think these days?"
I couldn’t care less about today’s youth, but as their representative, my opinion now defines the standard.
"It’s modern common sense. Besides, resistance is futile. As time goes on, your scalp will… evolve. Soon, even your bangs won’t survive the onslaught."
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